Antagonised
by ej'snwsm
Summary: Shortly after discovering the joys of writing, Stiles loses track of the difference between Reality and Fiction and is thrown into a dangerous world of complete uncertainty. Sterek.
1. Chapter 1

Alternately titled: **An In-genre Exploration of the Role of the Fiction Writer in the Creation of his Characters, and the Role of his Characters in the Creation of the Writer**

(...)

(...)

Stiles was only nine when he started writing. It was right after his mother died. He thinks someone probably recommended it to his dad, something about it being good for him to express himself.

It was ___not _a diary. It did not look like a diary, or start with 'Dear Diary…" or any of that silly kid stuff.

It was a book.

It was a novel.

It was pretty awesome.

And absolutely ___nothing _like a diary.

It had only one character. ___Needed _only one character. A young boy. A boy with no name. Stiles liked that. His character didn't ___need _a name. Not like in other books. His character was ___different_.

But the pressure. Oh the pressure. It got to him in the end. Because some characters had great names. There were 'Harry's and 'Tom's and 'Jim's. ___His _character deserved a great name too.

Unfortunately, when he finally caved in, there was only one name that would come to him. Nothing else would fit properly.

Regardless, he was very, very proud of what he'd written. It didn't have an ending yet, but it had a start, and where there's a start the rest can't be too far away.

He kept writing. And kept writing. It was fun, and it made him feel oddly important. People would see him writing and say that he had ___quite the imagination_. He figured he would be a famous writer one day.

His father didn't say much when Stiles finally let him read it, but that was okay. Sometimes they didn't need words.

He wrote for about a year. He didn't decide to stop writing. He just forgot about it one day, and then he was too busy, or he didn't have time for it, and eventually he'd outgrown the story.

Maybe he just didn't need it any more.

(...)

He found it again, six years later. He was cleaning out a box of junk (a.k.a procrastinating) and it practically jumped out at him. He didn't remember exactly what it was, at first. But he remembered when he opened it. Dear god did he remember when he started reading.

It was terrible.

Cringe worthy.

A year's worth of childhood ramblings.

The handwriting alone was like the signs on a dangerous construction site. ___Keep out. Go back. Abandon all hope ye who enter here._

It didn't get much better from there.

Stiles sat on his bed to read it. Perhaps he would have to bury himself later, just to escape from the shame. Because it was ___really _bad.

Sure, he ___was _only nine, but still. He put so much effort into that story, there should at least be some ___story _to show for it.

Instead, there was no characterisation. No storyline to speak of, unless he just managed to hide it ___really _well in the partially constructed sentences. He read the entire thing in the one sitting, there wasn't not much of it, cringing each time he turned a finger-print smudged page. He hadn't even written in pen.

He found a little solace in the fact that younger Stiles seemed to have learnt the correct spelling of ___because _at some point during the writing process. (At least there's that.)

He put the book down and collapsed back onto the bed, remembering the only thing his father ever said to him about the story he'd painstakingly written.

"You can't call your character Helen, Stiles."

"Why not?"

"Helen isn't a boy's name."

"So what?"

"The character is a boy."

"So?"

Stiles sighed. It was a good thing he found the book. He owed some serious apology to the majesty that is the written word. ___Serious _apology. Leaving it as it was must be some sort of crime, deserving of serious punishment. He had to re-write it. Or try to salvage whatever tiny something he could from the wreckage.

Stiles got up and stalked through the house, looking for an intact note book. He checked through the piles of books and scrap paper on his desk, then through the cupboards in the lounge room. He couldn't find one he hadn't scribbled in at least once. With resignation, he picked the one with the most blank pages, figuring he could just rip out the spoiled ones.

He was back in his room, pen at the ready, when he realised that he didn't really know what to write. He couldn't just start all over again, clean-slate like. That would hardly be an apology. He had to bring Helen back to life.

He collected the book from where he'd left it, lying open on his bed.

___Righ_t, he thought. ___It's you and me Helen. Time to start again._

(...)

By the time his father got home, Stiles had fashioned Helen into…something. The boy hadn't been much to start with, but he'd had potential. Stiles wasn't quite sure what Helen had become.

Nothing about Helen was a mistake, which was to say that everything about him was. He was strangely complete in Stile's mind, as if he was always been there, but had only recently been set free.

Helen was a young boy, starting to understand himself. He'd suffered loss when he was only young, and had done his best to cope. He was a teenager, catastrophically eager and inexperienced. He was awkward and a little lost, but most of all, he was just waiting. He has been waiting for a long time, though Stiles isn't sure what he's been waiting for.

Basically, he was Stiles.

Only he wasn't Stiles.

He absolutely was ___not _Stiles.

It was all strange, and it echoed around Stile's mind as he went downstairs and ate with his father. His fingers were itching by the time he returned to his room, new ideas about his story forming even as he grabbed the pen again. He remembered, remembered what it was like to write. How it felt to get everything onto the page and out of his head for a while.

So he kept writing.

The story seemed to develop almost without him. It almost seemed like all he had to do was hold the pen, Helen did the rest. But it was ___slightly _non-fictiony, erring on just the right side of creative, and he was kind of stuck, waiting for something to happen.

Not that he needed spectacular to write a good story. He personally thought that ___Tales of a Sexually Frustrated Lacrosse Benchwarmer_, would make a good title for a gritty coming of age novel, but the ___nothingness _of it implied a greater ___something _that he just didn't have yet. Besides, the laws of statistical probability were in his favour; nothing had happened in Beacon Hills for too long, someone was bound to outlaw dancing, or a body would turn up in the woods.

When he heard about the body in the woods, he was briefly freaked out by the coincidence, but no-one, no-one, jinxes the fundamental laws of the universe.

(...)

It was dark, and it was cold, and Stiles was very seriously considering going back. The bright patch of light wavered in front of him, showing him a whole lot less than it concealed. He knew that he would be better off with his natural night vision, but he couldn't bring himself to physically reach up and switch the head lamp off.

But excitement Helen needed, so excitement Stiles was there to find. Just as long as he didn't get dead in the process.

Besides, he wasn't out here alone. There was Scott, breathing heavily in the darkness next to him. And there was the body. Out there somewhere. In the deep dark woods.

And there was his father, and half the police force.

___So we're very nearly safe, _Stiles reassured himself silently, willing himself deeper into the woods.

But there was someone else too. Someone waiting for him in the dark. Something familiar, something he thought he had known a long time ago.

Stiles felt it. He didn't know where it was coming from. He wasn't even sure that it was real. But it urgeed him forward. His makeshift notebook felt heavy, where it sat, rolled up and stuffed in his back pocket. Suddenly, walking out in the wood seems like exactly the right thing to be doing.

It was so ___right_.

Until everything went wrong.

(...)

"Just like…everything." Stiles explained, taking a very short break from shovelling cafeteria food into his face. It was a difficult task, dividing his limited lunchtime and attention span between lunch, his notebook, and his best friend.

"But, like, why?" Scott asked, trying to read Stile's handwriting upside down. Stiles slid the book a little closer to himself, away from Scott's prying eyes.

"I don't know. I just like writing about the things that happen." Stiles was momentarily distracted by a stray thought.

"But nothing happens. Pretty much ever."

Stiles was starting to regret telling Scott about the story. But he needed an excuse for being more distant that usual. Sighing, he put his pen down and folded the book away, shoving it roughly into his backpack.

"Correction. Nothing ever ___happened_. Past tense. Now we've got crazy werewolf bites, alphas, ___girlfriend_," Stiles continued before the lovey-dovey smile on Scott's face got too out of control. "Enhanced senses, transformations, blood-lust, etcetera. I certainly wouldn't say nothing happens any more."

"You write about all that stuff? Am I in there?" Scott looked excited, probably picturing a detailed account of his recent forays in to the supernatural, or even worse, his ___sex-capades_. The story was nothing like that.

"There is a character in it who may or may not be going through something slightly similar to your predicament. But it's not really you. It's still fictional."

"So it is me. Can I read it?" A cheeky light danced in Scott's eyes, and Stiles didn't like the look of it at all. Scott would never be able to take it seriously. Stiles shook his head dismissively, scratching absently at his short hair.

Already his mind was elsewhere, his attention dropping from his friend and running back to the book, to the words that he needed to get down before they disappeared forever. If he took the thing out now, Scott would snatch it from him, read what he could before Stiles managed to do enough flailing to get it back.

He sighed again and pushed his tray away. He'd lost his appetite.

(...)

Stiles always stayed the right side of fictional. Everything in the story was just a little different. More colourful, maybe. Less real. Not by much, but the story of his life recently was not exactly mainstream autobiography material. His best friend was a werewolf. He was busy doing stuff a lycanthrope's best friend was supposed to do, balancing his school work, and trying to figure his way around the mystery Scott's bite had thrown them into.

It was good stuff.

Helen's life has been thrown upside down. Things were evolving, beyond the stretch of his understanding, beyond the scope of his view. He didn't know everything, but he was doing his best to discover what he could.

There wasn't just one character any more. It had a setting, and a whole cast of strange and familiar characters. His puppets danced their way across the stage of handwritten pages.

It was still real. Or very close to real. Stiles liked to think that he was telling his story. Their story, the story of everything that was happening around them all.

It was Stiles and Scott, but it was ___not _Stiles and Scott.

And it was Allison, and Lydia, and his father, and Jackson, and Danny, and Scott's mum. And Derek Hale.

But it wasn't them. It wasn't ___him_.

It was something apart from them, somewhere they didn't exist.

Somewhere they didn't have to exist.

(...)

Stiles leaned back in his chair, feeling it creak against the curve of his spine. He rubbed his face, pressing the back of his hands against his closed eyes. He didn't remember blinking at any point in the last few hours. He didn't remember doing much of anything. He'd only noticed the aches and throbs when he put the pen down, stopped writing for a second.

It was pitch black outside, and Stiles realised that he was really tired. It was late. He'd lost track of time again, forcing forward the arrow of time in his narrative.

He pushed himself away from the desk, falling to the bed. The soft mattress felt like heaven under his sore shoulders. He really needed to stop crouching over himself to write. It would be the death of him. Or at least the pain of him.

But he had to get up. He wanted to read over what he'd written, didn't want to leave it for the morning. So Stiles got up, ignoring the mostly imaginary creaking in his knees.

He changed quickly, brushed his teeth and picked up the note book.

The only light in the room was from the lamp near his bedside, and in his current state of exhaustion he could barely make out the words. He considered getting up and putting another light on, but he really couldn't be bothered. He just wanted to read it and collapse into unconsciousness.

He managed to read through three pages before he had to throw it down. It was only about a thousand words, but it caused his heart to sink. It was bad. Like he'd-just-given-the-story-a-severe-strain-of-the-bubonic-plague bad.

No.

It was worse.

There is one think that, above all others, can turn good writing bad. Sure, occasionally it could be done well, but very occasionally and definitely not on this occasion.

Werewolves.

Not werewolves specifically. But the whole supernatural thing? Nothing can kill a good story faster.

"Now Stiles", Stiles chastised himself. "Didn't we promise not to succumb to the evil temptation of the," he shuddered in the warmth of the room, "paranormal romance?"

He wasn't quite sure what possessed him to do it.

Werewolves.

___Werewolves_.

Where did that come from? What is it doing in a perfectly-almost-nonfictional story?

He has been keeping it pretty real. He'd been using ___his____own____experiences_, after all. What would possess him to diverge into such a random topic? Where had his head been during those last chapters?

Because: werewolves, that wasn't something…

But it was.

Stiles blinked, feeling almost as though he'd woken up from a very slight daze.

It was what'd been happening. It wa___s _his life now.

He lay down, frowning to himself.

Did he seriously just forget about everything that had been happening in the last few months?

Stiles mentally shrugged it off. He was tired, and he'd been stuck in his story for too long today. He just needed a break. Besides, it wasn't too unforgivable that he'd mistaken his utterly crazy life for something fictional.

He could feel his eyes closing, feel himself losing consciousness. He was too tired to care about his slip up. For all he knew, the whole werewolf thing ___was _made up, and he was just too tired to remember. Whatever the truth was, he'd just have to trust that it would remain that way until morning. He'd find out then.

He fell asleep without switching the light off, his notebook lying open on the floor.

Just before he totally lost all awareness, he thought he heard something in his room. A soft, familiar voice, saying his name. But it was no louder than a whisper, and he'd forgotten it by the time he woke up the next morning.

(...)

(...)

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**This story focuses pretty quickly and very intentionally on Stiles, limiting the contact with secondary characters. I wanted to write this very Stiles-centric, to reflect how personal writing is a personal thing which is sometimes hard to share. It's intentionally disjointed, but I know that could be a little annoying.  
Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Writing is like a disease," Stiles said jokingly as he fished the notepad out of his pocket. It was lunch again, which meant it was keep Scott occupied time _again_. But he'd just had an idea, and wanted to get it down in its entirety, before subjecting it to the degradation of his attention span. "You get these ideas at random times, and you just have to write until you write it all out. That's the only way to get rid of it. The urge. Only you never really get rid of it. As soon as you finish one bit, something else hits you. Like inspirational shrapnel."

Scott just nodded, distracted by something that was not Stiles, leaving him to write his story. His great idea turned out to be worth nothing more than a couple of lines, which sucked. When he was done he leaved the book on the table, beside his untouched plate.

Scott was still distracted. Stiles remembered the strange happenings of the night before and supposed they'd be good at grabbing Scott's attention, at least for a little while.

"So get this, I actually thought that you being a werewolf was only in my story."

"Really?" Scott asked, but he didn't really sound interested. Stiles made a strange noise of annoyance and tried again.

"Yeah. I totally thought that I made it all up."

Scott didn't seem to have gained interest in what Stiles was saying so much as he'd lost interest in whatever he'd _been _interested in, so he turned to back to his friend.

"You couldn't have made it all up. Nobody's that sadistic. Not even you." Stiles frowned a little.

"I could totally be that sadistic. Besides, I'm fairly sure we've become acquainted with some sadists lately."

"Are you talking about Derek?"

Stiles silently motioned his confirmation by throwing his arms in various directions.

"He's not that bad."

"You're kidding me. You've got to be kidding me. It's not just the giant wolf-beast thing. No offense. It's just the laws of nature."

"What are you talking about?"

"The laws of nature, right? No one can look that good and be mentally sound. It would be unfair for the rest of us."

Scott had begun smiling, looking at Stiles as if he was being particularly _Stiles-y._

"I hadn't noticed. But, of course, you did."

Stiles drew himself up, affronted. He wasn't sure what that Scott smile was about. Or he was _too _sure what that Scott smile was about. Either way.

"I am a writer. Of course I noticed."

(...)

Stiles was actually considering re-writing the laws of nature. And probability. And all those things that used to be eternal.

Because Derek.

Just. _Derek_.

No one should be that attractive. Period.

No matter how mentally unsound. Not even the crazy wolf thing makes up for it.

Stiles was definitely writing Derek into the story. Because that was one opportunity that he was not willing to miss. The mysterious almost-stranger, with a convoluted past and a whole lot of issues. Stiles could not _not _write Derek into the story.

So when he got home that afternoon, he readied his pen and got ready to capture the essence of the guy. The person Stiles recognised almost instantly that first day in the woods.

What would Helen think of someone like Derek? Who would they be to one another? Stiles would have to write to find out.

So he got to writing.

_The werewolf actually had two tattoos. No one, not even his sister, had ever seen the second…_

(...)

Stiles decided he would have to designate specific, allocated, _strict _writing times. It was once again far too late when he finished writing for the day.

He'd pulled all-nighters before, studying or marathons or game nights with Scott. But spending the time writing was different to any and all of that. It was exhausting.

At least he could just sleep now. He'd learnt his lesson the night before; no reading horror stories when one is in a state of minor delirium.

He fell into bed, not bothering to do anything more than pull off his socks. He was too tired. He didn't really care that his clothes could ruin the sheets. How much damage could one night do?

He was falling slowly, drifting in and out of a lucid state.

"Stiles."

He sat up. It was as close to bolt upright as he could get in the middle of the night, but it would have to do, because he'd heard something.

He thought he'd heard his name the night before, but dismissed it as the witching hour and the exhaustion and the whole almost-asleep thing. Now he wasn't sure. He sat completely still, waiting. Just waiting. It was so quiet, not even the breeze stirring somewhere outside was recognisable. There was no other noise to judge against, nothing to reassure Stiles that it had just been a thought.

He didn't move. Nothing in his room moved. Slowly he drew in a breath. The wind through his air pipe was enough to disrupt the ringing in his ears, but it didn't solve his real problem.

There was no one in his room. Yet he had heard a voice, had heard his name.

He needed to get a grip. He was just tired. He was just hearing things where there should be no things. He probably just needed a break from the sixty shades of crazy his life had turned into lately.

_You need to get a grip man. _Stiles thought to himself as he lay back, flicking off the light. The room was plunged into a nice darkness. _Preferably before you start talking to yourself._

In the darkness, Stiles could forget about it, wriggle down into his sheets and get comfortable. But he didn't forget. He could feel something in the room. He didn't hear anything else, or see anything, or smell anything, or _anything_. But it was there. Something, somehow.

He couldn't get to sleep, spent most of the night tossing and turning somewhere between awake and unconscious. Nothing happened, but the memory was enough.

He knew that he wouldn't tell anyone, tomorrow, even if he was too tired to function come morning. He wouldn't know what to say.

(...)

The floorboard under his shoe creaked and Stiles flinched. Derek looked across at him and frowned. Or he'd already been frowning before he heard the noise, Stiles wasn't sure. He eased his foot off the offending plank, wrenching a prolonged groan from the wood. He was almost tempted not to put his foot down again, to just stand on one leg while Derek went about doing whatever it was that they were supposed to be doing, but he'd probably just end up falling over and breaking something. Not to mention waking up whatever the thing was that was sleeping above their heads, the thing that they definitely want to continue slumbering. All that Stiles could recall was that it was something between a leprechaun and Jabba the Hutt, but he'd been a little distracted while Derek was telling Scott. Plus, he was pretty sure that Derek wouldn't be referencing Star Wars, so it was probably his brain filling in the gaps. Sue him for holding adamantly to the hope that the _mysterical _goings on were going to go on Stiles free, just this once.

But no, he'd been volun_told _into his current predicament by a frantic Scott, as his werewolf friend rushed off to solve the _other _werewolf problem currently in progress. Why did bad, supernatural-type things always come in twos? It seemed like whatever was happening in Beacon Hills, it would _always _require a spilt up.

Perhaps mysterious forces employ the divide and conquer method.

Stiles managed to take five more steps without making too much sound. He was about to try for his sixth when Derek froze beside him. The man went completely still (though Stiles would swear later that he could see Derek's ears twitch) so quickly that Stiles almost lost him in the darkness. He seemed to melt into shadows the moment he stopped moving.

Stiles froze too, not knowing where the danger was coming from, but trusting Derek enough to know that it _was _coming. He tried desperately to recall what their emergency exit strategy had been, but he didn't think that there had actually been one.

Then he heard it. Right above his head something was shifting, starting to move about. It sounded like someone was dragging a loaded set of drawers against the floorboards, the distinctive sound of a large weight moving. He looked across to where he had thought Derek was supposed to be, a look of confused panic in his eyes. Nothing happened for what felt like a fair while, then Stiles was being manhandled back towards the wall behind him.

Derek was pushing him backwards. Stiles had a fair idea of just how far away the wall was, and he braced for impact, thinking very, _very _quiet thoughts. Impact didn't come, the wall seemed to open up behind him, and then impact did come, and then Derek was closing the doors to the cupboard. And throwing them into stuffy darkness. Stiles could feel a number of coats cushioning his back, stifling his brief but intimate connection with the wall. He shifted sideways so that he and Derek could fit into the small space a little better.

Derek still seemed to be listening, head cocked slightly to one side. Stiles took a moment to be impressed by Derek knowing about the closet. Stiles hadn't noticed it, but then again, he doesn't have super werewolf night vision, and they _were _breaking and entering a house in the middle of the night.

After a couple of moments Derek seemed to relax, falling back against the wall on his side of the cupboard. Stiles jumped as a light came on outside the door, but Derek didn't move, just continued leaning against his wall. Catching Derek's eye in the subdued light, Stiles mouthed, _Are we okay?_

Derek paused for a moment, then nodded.

Stiles could hear that sound again, the effort of heavy movement.

"She's got pretty bad hearing." Derek whispered.

"She?"

Derek didn't answer, just took a moment to peer through one of the thin slats in the cupboard door.

"What do we do now?" Stiles murmured softly, because he didn't care how bad the thing's hearing was, he was not going to risk anything louder.

"We wait. It's expelling energy, energy that it doesn't really have. She will need to rest soon. It can't stay active for more than about fifteen minutes at a time." Derek relaxed back into his casual position against the wall, looking as though this was something he did regularly, and not a major hiccup in a plan gone wrong.

Stiles nodded. He sat still for a minute, but the prospect of imminent danger and the adrenaline still doing its thing to him on a molecular level were making him jumpy and while the cupboard was roomy, it wasn't _that _roomy. It was too hot, the thick coats engulfing him no matter how he tried to push them away. Stiles couldn't help but wonder if he might find Narnia if he looked hard enough.

He reached back into his pocket and pulled out the notebook. His pen was wedged in between a couple of the pages and he took it out, angling the paper so that he got a bit of the light on it. There was just enough that he would be able to see what he was writing. He'd written blind before, but it wasn't really salvageable in the light of day. He'd prefer the light, even if there was only a scarce amount.

Derek looked at him like he'd gone completely mad.

"You're going to do that now?" Derek's whisper wasn't really quiet any more.

Stiles stared at him. He didn't really know if he would be right in voicing his disapproval of the unnecessary noise, since he was hardly the expert on leprechaun slugs. And it was Derek, so…better not. Voicing _anything _was risky. But Derek was still looking at him like he needed an answer.

"Well…yeah. I don't think there's gonna really be a better time for it. And it's not like there's anything else I _should _be doing."

"Anyone would think you'd might be a little occupied with not dying."

"Why? This is my average Saturday night, Derek. Risking my life is like a weekly thing now. The probability play-book has already been thrown out of the window, so I'm not even pushing my luck any more, really. That's your fault, by the way."

"My fault?" Derek said softly, looking like he both did and didn't want to know.

"Yes. Your fault." Stiles whispered back. He couldn't help himself from snapping a little. He hadn't been sleeping well lately, and yeah, he might have been a little cranky.

Derek just glared back at him. That was something he was used to, so Stiles just continued to write and Derek just continued to glare.

Apparently the glaring was supposed to have some effect. When it wasn't having that effect, Derek gritted his teeth together and tried again.

"Would you _please _stop writing in that thing?"

The please sounded particularly forced. Stiles looked at him incredulously, mouth hanging slightly ajar. But Derek's eyes flashed angrily so he acquiesced. Perhaps it _was _a little inappropriate. But if he never got a chance to write ever again, because of death by _leprechaun slug_, he was totally blaming Derek. He folded the book up and put it away.

They just sat in the cupboard, silently. Which, to Stiles, was getting more and more awkward. Derek was looking anywhere _but _at Stiles, which might've looked casual…for the first five minutes. But there was literally _nothing _else to look at, unless one had some sort of fur coat fetish. It was clearly not just random. It was _obviously _intentional.

And that was pretty annoying, really infuriating actually, because if Derek had a problem with Stiles then he could have found someone else to do this B&E with, someone with whom he wouldn't mind being stuck in a tight space, since it wasn't like Stiles asked for this. This was not how he wanted to spend his night either.

Stiles glared at Derek as Derek avoided his gaze.

It was a long fifteen minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles finally gave in and let Scott read it. It was nearly done, he knew that the ending couldn't be too far away. He had been working on it for months and it was almost at the point where it had taken up most of his life. It scared him a little to think about how involved he was, in the story.

Not in an actual involved way. He wasn't in it. He was never going to be in it. It was not about him. But the words were still his. He was still giving it life by giving up a little of his own. This is what it's like to be a writer, he thought. It's exhausting.

He hoped that getting a second opinion would help him to distance himself a little.

So it wasn't so much giving in as it was making a strategic decision, one that would hopefully make him a better writer.

On the first page Stiles had hastily scrawled the disclaimer: The views and opinion expressed in this narrative are in no way representative of those of its author. Furthermore, the characters portrayed here are fictional and mostly bare no relation to real people, living or dead.

It didn't make him any less nervous turning the book over to his best friend. He hesitated until Scott almost gave up on receiving it at all. Then he fidgeted, unable to sit still. At least they were in his bedroom, a place which had proven time and time again to be full of distractions.

No distractions made themselves distracting.

Scott rolled his eyes at the disclaimer and then turned to the next page. Stiles' nerves were already strung out, and there were many, many more pages to go. He began to remember all of the things that he'd written that he perhaps didn't want Scott to see. But he couldn't take the book back now, wouldn't want to even if it was possible. Well, maybe he would want to, but he wasn't going to think about that. He was committed to this strangely exhilarating humiliation. Let the good times roll.

Luckily it turned out that there weren't too many options for nerves once they'd hit strung out. Stiles eventually lost interest in watching Scott's face for its expression, and re-discovered a couple of those ineffective distractions. He even managed a little irritation about how slow Scott was reading.

The story was almost over. It was far too late to go back and change things now, even if they were rubbish. Whatever Scott said, it wouldn't change the story, not now.

He heard his father's car pull up in the driveway, glancing out the window to see that it was already dark. It was odd that he and Scott managed to spend the entire afternoon in his room without something terrible happening. Minutes after the front door opened and closed again, the sheriff was at his door, checking in on the both of them. His father looked tired, which was more common that not of late. Stiles knew why. Perhaps even better that his father did.

There had been a rash of killings, bodies found almost in pieces in the woods around the town. The police didn't know what or who was killing people. They needed information, badly, if they were to have any chance of stopping them.

Stiles had information, but no way to share it with his father. Information that was easy to come by on the lycanthrope grapevine, information his father would never believe.

A rouge werewolf had been stalking the town, sensing the disordered supernatural goings on. Picking off anyone who ventured to close to the wrong tree line.

The pack had been doing their best to find him, but he was still managing to evade them. Stiles hoped that would change soon, so that the deaths would stop, and his father might have a solid night's rest.

The sheriff didn't stay long, taking one look at the notebook Scott was buried in and rolling his eyes.

What's with all the eye rolling? Stiles thought. His story didn't deserve that type of reaction.

Scott would be the first person, besides his dad years ago, to read the story. Whatever he said would define 50% of the feedback.

Stiles could feel tension rising in him again as Scott reaches the last page he'd written. He'd told Scott that it wasn't finished yet, or at least he'd meant to tell Scott that it wasn't finished yet and almost definitely remembered to do so. It took a really long time for Scott to get through the story, understandably since there is rather a lot of story, and his friend had to leave soon.

Scott finished reading and closed the book. Putting it down on Stiles' desk, he blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes.

"Dude, I didn't even know that my eyes could get tired anymore."

Stiles was too anxious to reply.

"That is a long story."

Maybe Stiles wasn't too anxious to reply.

"Okay, but what did you think?"

Scott took a while to answer, apparently contemplating his answer. Stiles didn't know if that was a good thing.

"It's amazing."

"It is?" Stiles asked, thrown a little by the sincerity in Scott's voice.

"Yeah. Especially the bits about me."

Stiles breathed the breath he'd been holding and swatted at Scott with a pillow from the bed. Scott was smiling when he arose, unscathed, from the fluffy onslaught.

"But seriously," Scott continued. "It's really good. How on earth did you figure out how to write like that?"

Stiles smiled at the compliment, his heart racing.

Scott liked the story. It seems that Scott really liked the story.

That was a relief. Stiles laughed and paced the rest of his anxiety out. When he stilled, Scott was frowning.

"But your character's name is Helen?"

"Yeah. It's the only name I could come up with when I was nine years old."

"Right, but…and don't take this the wrong way, but is he gay?"

"Because his name is Helen? Because it's a girl's name? I don't think that's really how names work. Actually, I'm really sure that's not how names work."

"Not because of his name." Scott shrugged, looking a little wary. "Well, not just his name. Other things too."

Stiles shrugged. Frowning, he considered. He hadn't thought of that.

"I don't know."

Scott eased up and smiled.

"He's you're character, how could you not know?"

Perhaps it's just Stiles, but he thought he heard more in the question than it's immediate meaning. He was a bit too busy thinking about this to think about that, though.

"He's not my character." Stiles offered, vaguely.

Scott just smiled and said that he had to go. Stiles walked him down the hall and out the door.

As Scott was walking down the path, he turned back.

He looked as though he really wanted to say something, but didn't quite think that it would be the best idea. Stiles knew that Scott had recognised the huge wordless thing floating around Stiles writing, and his mind. The thing that Stiles hadn't really wanted to think too much about. The thing that everyone seemed to know, but no one seemed to know what to do with.

Scott gave up trying to give words to the wordless thing and disappeared into the night, leaving Stiles standing in the doorway looking out into the empty night.

His dad called out to him as he turned back around and closed the door.

"So are we eating or not?"

Stiles walked obligingly into the kitchen and sat at the table. He wasn't hungry (who could be, at a time like this?) and didn't even take notice of the food in front of him.

His dad was quiet. He looked lost in the images in front of his eyes, though they were invisibly to the real world. Stiles understood. There were images that you couldn't get out of your head, no matter how hard you tried. Stiles knew that now. He and his father both. Personal nightmares, sure, but they both knew what it was like to have horror burnt into their retinas.

Stiles also knew, far too well, the type of image plaguing his father this time round. He'd seen his fair share of victims of this particular assailant. Only, he didn't get the luxury of his father's ignorance, the privilege of confusion. Stiles had to knowexactly what was going on.

He knew the kind of monsters that lurk in the darkness.

Stiles didn't really want to sit around in silence with his father. After all, there are important fictional things that needed doing, and Stiles was just the person to do them. Letting Scott read the story seemed to have taken a little of the pressure off, and he hadn't felt the almost never-ending need to write, write and continue writing. At least for a while. It was back though. Seemed it never went too far.

Still, he knew that he had to spend time with the real people around him. Lest he lose, forever, the ability to converse with another actual human being.

And, for the time being, the silence was novel. Stiles felt as if he hadn't had a lot of it in the last few months.

"Stiles?" His dad broke the silence.

"Yeah dad?"

"Are you depressed?"

"Ah-" Stiles choked a little. The question came completely out of the blue, and he was more than a little shocked at its having been asked.

Stiles had been spending a lot of time alone lately. Much more than usual. It was strange to know that his father was worried about it, because Stiles didn't feel like he was alone. There was no loneliness, no suffocating isolation.

"No." Stiles answered definitely. But he was curious, all the same. "Do I seem depressed?"

His father looked a little sheepish.

"I don't really know. You seem to spend a lot of time upstairs in your room, just writing in that notebook. You don't eat much. You don't talk as much any more either. And I hardly see as much of Scott as I used to."

"I'm just busy. You know; school, writing, hanging out. It's busy stuff. Besides, I still see Scott. He was literally here half an hour ago."

His dad just looked a little confused, as if there were some boundary for understanding between the two of them.

"Okay. If you say you're fine, I believe you. It's just that I would have to way to know, since you don't tell me anything at all. You're like the phantom that lives in my house."

"Yeah, well I'm fine. I'm good. Great, actually. Really fine. And I promise you that I don't have any big secrets that I lie about. Just truths that I haven't told you yet."

"Right." His father proceeded as though he was lost in a desert without a map. "If you want me to, I could probably try to be home more often. Just so that you're not so alone all the time."

Stiles shook his head vigorously. There was no need for anything as drastic as that.

Stiles was fine. Everything was really fine.

"I don't mind being alone dad. Besides, they really need you elsewhere." It was long past the time to change the subject. And while they were talking, Stiles might as well try to find out what he could. "You have to catch the thing killing people."

Stiles hated himself a little for the look of pain he saw in his father's eyes. He didn't want to bring the images back, but it seemed like he had.

"We're really trying. But we hardly know where to begin. None of us have seen anything like it before."

There was something odd about that, but Stiles didn't quite know what it was yet.

"It's…the injuries are like…"

"Like an animal attack?" Stiles asked, already expecting the answer.

"No."

Stiles frowned. Suddenly the odd thing became clear. His father knew what a werewolf attack looked like, if only post-attack. This shouldn't be beyond his ability to recall at all. Something weird was going on.

"No?" He asked, casually.

"Not at all. It's definitely a human killing them. But it looks as though he killed them with his bare hands. Like someone went at them with his fingers and blunt nails. It makes no sense. A person would have to be really determined to do something like that. Their nails would have nearly come off with the sheer force of it."

Stiles nodded absently, confused. The movement seems to spur something in his father, who looked like he'd realised that he'd said too much.

"Don't worry. We'll find who's doing it. I'll get the dishes, don't worry about it."

Stiles knew he was being dismissed and headed back upstairs, trying to work out just how another spanner managed to fit into the works.

(...)

Helen was gay.

Was Helen gay?

Stiles…well, Stiles didn't know.

It was possible, he supposed. He'd never really thought about it. He was thinking about it now though.

There was so much about the story that Stiles didn't know yet. He wasn't even sure how it was going to end. And not every story needed a love interest/romantic story line. No matter what Hollywood producers seemed to think.

Stiles hadn't written in a romantic storyline into the story. Not for Helen, at least. Now he wondered if maybe one had sneaked in without him noticing. Leave it to Scott to see things in a way that Stiles hadn't.

Fresh perspective and all that.

Stiles realised that he didn't mind this possible new direction. It was different. Sure, it changed things. A lot. But it was interesting. And it felt kind of…normal. Strangely normal.

But Stiles still wasn't sure. How could he have overlooked a detail like that?

He had meant it when he'd told Scott that Helen was not his character. But he was still the one writing the story.

Stiles still didn't know who Helen was, and he wondered if maybe Scott really did just deliver one of the final clues.

"Are you gay, Helen?" Stiles said aloud to his empty room.

"I am."

Stiles spun around. He almost tripped, but regained his balance at the last moment.

The room was empty.

But he'd heard someone answer.

And he knew the voice.

He stood still, waiting for something to happen. Wondering if he was going mad. He'd almost convinced himself that it was just an aural hallucination, when he heard the voice again. The voice that had been keeping him awake for the past week's worth of sleepless nights.

"Are you, Stiles?"


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles was running. Faster and faster, through the darkness. It was the most complete blackness that he'd ever seen. He hadn't thought that it was possible to create a darkness to devoid of light. He had to remind himself to blink, there was no difference between having his eyes open or closed. None that he could tell.

He didn't know why he was running. He just started, a long time ago, somewhere else in the darkness. And he still hadn't stopped. He didn't even know if he was going anywhere. He just kept running.

His head felt light from it, but he wasn't running out of breath. He wasn't gasping like he should be. Maybe he wasn't running through air anymore. Maybe he no longer needed to breathe.

Stiles slammed into something in the blackness, felt it press at him and hold him tight. He hadn't seen it, still couldn't see it. It caught at his clothes and pulled them closer, stretching the fabric across Stiles' limbs. He could feel it begin to rip, begin to tear against his elbows, across his spine.

He felt it reach out again, begin to crawl down his throat, into his nose and his eyes. It seeped through him, suffocating him and he needed to breathe again. But the darkness was obstructing his airways, clogging up his nose, his ears, slithering past his skin.

He started to panic, desperately pulling at the thick nothingness around him.

He felt his lungs begin to burn, knew that he would not survive for much longer without oxygen. Urgently kicking out, he felt his foot collide with the something, felt it recoil. He swung out into the darkness, feeling more of his desperate limbs make contact. Before long he was able to breathe again. He began to recover, feeling the darkness shrink away from him.

Feeling giddily victorious, he lurched forward, falling upon the lightless void. Panting heavily, he tore into it, feeling it give under his fingers, part beneath his fingernails. It made no sound, but he could feel its death as he continued to assault it, viciously tearing it to shreds.

As it died, a tremendous sound filled the endless space, driving Stiles to his knees in pain.

The sound beat against his skull, and he tore again at the fading darkness, trying to make it stop.

It stopped the minute he woke up. The sudden silence caused his ears to ring, and he was immediately bolt upright. Stiles thought he knew all the nightmares his brain had come up with, but this dream was completely new to him.

His hands ached with the ghost of memory, remembering what he had forced them to do in the dream. He was still breathing heavily, but his heart was beginning to calm down. It was just a dream. He couldn't hurt it.

Still, he couldn't shake the memory of the angry bloodlust that had flashed through his bones as he attacked the darkness. He couldn't forget what it had felt like when his nails had started to come away from his fingertips.

Suddenly his father's description came back to him. Of the unusual and unusually brutal killings. His subconscious must have been listening closer than he had, and had conjured up this nightmare to terrorise his dreams. It was probably his mind's way of reminding him that something curious had happened and he had yet to check it out.

He fell back onto his bed, trying to put the dream out of his head. It was surprisingly persistent, not leaving him as he tried to go back to sleep. He was worried that if he did sleep again, it would only be to find himself back in that darkness.

_I get it_, he thought. _I will see what's up with that out tomorrow, but only if you let me sleep._

"Is that really what you think that was?" Helen asked, and Stiles groaned, pulling his pillow up over his head.

"Seriously Stiles. You think it was just a dream."

The pillow barely muffled the voice, at least not enough to let Stiles sleep, so he pushed it aside and sat up again. His room was empty to look at, but Stiles knew that 'looks empty' didn't mean all that much anymore.

"Well, what do you think it is Helen? Please do tell so that I might get back to sleeping."

"I was just asking. If you think it was a dream, a dream it was."

"What else could it be? Of course it was a dream. I was dreaming it, so…dream yeah?"

Helen didn't answer, but Stiles could feel what he was implying. Could it be that the dream was more than just his brain reminding him about something he'd forgotten? Stiles couldn't believe the only alternative that came to mind. Because it was ridiculous.

How could what he had seen, what he had done, be real?

"No." Stiles argued abruptly. "No, it was the omega killing those people."

He heard Helen scoff.

"Come on Stiles. You and I both know that that's not possible. No wolf kills like that. We both know what you were dreaming about."

"But Derek and Scott, they would know if something else was going on. If…someone else was committing these crimes."

"Derek? You think he'd tell you the truth? Both of them, they know something's up with the deaths. But they're not going to tell you, are they? They don't trust you."

"That's ridiculous. Why wouldn't they tell me?"

The room was silent for a second, and Stiles began to wonder if Helen was gone. Then his phantom character spoke again.

"You think you mean something to him. Oh Stiles. Why do you always do this? You're nothing to them. Just a pathetic human. They don't need you."

Stiles frowned into the darkened room. He felt shame settling in his chest, despite not truly believing what Helen had said.

"_I_ need you Stiles. And I don't care what you did to those people. I will always need you."

As suddenly as he came, Helen was gone. Stiles felt the absence, though nothing had really changed.

His heart had started beating wildly again, but he forced himself to slow down a little. Helen was wrong. That was okay, Helen was a flawed character to start off with. He had no idea what he was talking about. He knew nothing about the real world.

Stiles knew, he _knew_, that he couldn't have had anything to do with any of what was going on out there. It was impossible. Besides, Helen was wrong about Derek too. Whatever Derek had used to feel about Stiles tagging along with Scott, Stiles knew that the werewolf had come to rely on him, just a little bit.

Trust or no trust, they would tell him if something was up.

Still, doubt tortured a small part of his mind. What-if's sprang up and danced eerily, refusing to be banished back into impossibility.

What if…

What if…

_What if?_

(...)

Derek didn't say anything as Stiles followed him into his house, just somehow looked like Stiles being there wasn't bothering him at all _and_ that Stiles interrupted him doing something of infinite importance. Stiles didn't have time to worry about disrupting Derek's very important schedule. Besides, it wasn't really something that would bother him anyway.

Stiles barely saw any of the house as he turned back to Derek, who was closing the door behind them. Derek might not look have surprised to see him (anyone hoping to catch Derek with an expression of anything but nonchalance, smugness or barely concealed anger would have to do something truly insane) Derek did seem uneasy as he watched Stiles begin to pace in hurried little steps across his floorboards.

Stiles knew the way that he must look to Derek. He'd barely slept last night, and it had left clear marks on him by morning. His eyes were ringed with dark, bruise-like bags. He'd changed clothes, but he'd gotten dressed in a daze, so he didn't really know _what_ he was wearing. His body was alive with even more nervous energy that usual, and he just couldn't hold still.

He knew he was a mess.

He knew he looked crazy.

But he had to know.

He was probably going to _sound_ crazy in a minute.

Derek just looked at him, frowning in a way which clearly conveyed that he had no idea why Stiles was in his house at 5:30 in the morning.

Stiles looked at Derek but didn't see him. He couldn't see anything beyond the thoughts in his head. He was confused, so confused. He might not always know what's going on, but usually he had a pretty good idea. This time, he was so lost that he didn't think he could find his way with google maps and an audio tour guide.

Stiles stopped pacing long enough to turn towards Derek, who looked at him expectantly. But he didn't know what to say, where to begin, so he started pacing again.

When he stopped again to look at Derek, the man looks as though he'd about to say something.

Stiles couldn't hear anything that Derek had to say. Not yet. He didn't think that he could process anything that wasn't answers to the questions he hadn't asked yet. He certainly couldn't formulate answers of his own, to whatever question Derek was about to come up with.

"What's killing those people."

It didn't sound like a question, but Stiles had managed to make the sounds and he thought that was probably enough.

Stiles thought Derek looked taken aback for almost half a second, before regaining his composure.

"What?"

Stiles wanted to throw up his arms in desperation, or throw himself against the ground, or panic, or crowd into Derek's personal space and demand the answer, but that was Derek's thing, and maybe he should just repeat what he said but with a question mark this time.

"What is killing those people?"

Apparently Derek recognised the non-existent question mark the first time, because his expression didn't waiver from _what-are-you-talking-about-Stiles-what-a-stupid-question-to-be-asking-at-this-time-in-the-morning-go-home-and-bother-someone-else_.

But Stiles needed to hear the answer.

He needed Derek to tell him the truth. He needed Derek to tell him that he was not currently nor had he ever been a danger to anyone. And yes, if that made Stiles feel a little pathetic, he was okay with it. He's human, after all.

Stiles was still pacing, and Derek still hadn't answered so he may or not be pacing in this hallway for the rest of eternity.

"Who killed them?"

"The omega. I don't understand what you want me to tell you. You know that the omega is the one doing this. What do you think we've been doing out in the woods? Digging for lost treasure?"

The sarcasm was reassuring, and Derek sounded as though he was being honest.

Stiles wanted to trust him. Wanted to believe that Derek was telling the truth.

But he knew. He wasn't sure how he knew, but as soon as Derek finished speaking, Stiles was absolutely sure of it.

Stiles couldn't believe him.

He knew that Derek was lying to him.

Derek was lying to him, which meant that Scott was lying to him too. Stiles couldn't trust either of them.

"It's just the wolf, Stiles."

Stiles looked at Derek, stared at him. He still hardly saw anything, but he heard the lies, as clear as day.

He had to leave. He had to get out of there. He had to get back home, back to his room. He needed Helen, who would tell him the truth. Helen couldn't lie to him, wouldn't lie to him.

Evasively, he told Derek that he had to leave, and pushed past him to get to the door.

Derek didn't move, just let Stiles slip out of the house behind him.

Stiles could feel his heart beating again. He didn't know what to do.

He…he couldn't…

He couldn't kill anyone. It had to be impossible.

Only it wasn't impossible. Derek had basically told him outright that there was no Omega killing people. Perhaps not outright, but it had been said nonetheless. And he didn't trust Stiles. Derek was lying to him. Why would he do that, if Stiles wasn't…involved? Implicated.

Stiles broke into a jog, needing to get out of the woods as fast as possible.

He needed to be home.

Stiles had the dream again that night. He was back in the darkness, running and fighting, for his life or the rush or it he didn't know.

He woke up in the morning, feeling like he hadn't slept at all. He remembered waking throughout the night, more and more often as his nightmares progressed. Each time, he would hear Helen, crooning softly to him in his dark room.

"It was you. It was you. You did it. You did it. You did it."

_You did it. _

(...)

Stiles barely slept anymore. When he did, it was because he'd passed out on some semi-comfortable surface, from an exhaustion he couldn't ignore anymore.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything. He was _pretty_ sure he remembered what outside looked like, but it was more of a vague memory than a solid idea. He could see a little rectangular bit of it from the window in his room, but that was all.

He was too close to the ending. Too close to the end of his story. He needed to write, more than he'd ever needed any of that other stuff. He had once joked that writing was like a disease, now he truly believed it. I was all that he wanted to do, all that he could do. It was the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that he could understand anymore.

Helen's voice was almost constant now, echoing in his ears. He whispered to Stiles, telling him all the secrets of the story. Things he'd never even thought of. Promising to give him the ending. Promising him the truth.

Stiles didn't know what would happen when the story was finally over. He didn't really care. He just needed to write it. That's all.

Somehow, he understood that he'd lost his grip on reality. It didn't trouble him. He'd lost it a while ago.

He knew that people were worried about him. Scott no longer had the right to worry, but his father…Stiles didn't know how much longer he could go on like that until his dad tried to intervene.

His father didn't understand. He didn't know how much Stiles needed it all to be finished. He needed those last words, like a cave diver needs oxygen. After everything, this was all that he had left, all that he needed.

His dad would tell him that he needed to do _other_ things, things Stiles had used to do, like that was going to help him at all. What he needed was right in front of him, in the words and the writing and the story. His father would try to stop that. Stiles needed it _not_ to stop.

Stiles was in his room, scribbling fiercely in the book. His handwriting had become so messy that it was barely legible. He seemed to have lost the ability to care.

He paused as he hit a block, unable to go on. He was at a loss for words, unsure of what was supposed to happen next. He'd been hitting them all morning. Or night. Or afternoon. He didn't care to know anymore.

Helen only gave him the story in short bursts, keeping him guessing for some reason. Stiles was being led along like a reader, not an active creator.

He leaned back from the paper, took a breath. Oxygen flooded his brain but it didn't bring him the answers.

"Thank you Stiles." The voice was louder than usual, and Stiles actually fell back in the chair, sending both it and himself tumbling to the floor. He picked himself up and rearranged the chair close to the desk.

"For what? Why are you thanking me?" He asked, hesitantly.

"This is it. We finally made it."

"What is it?"

"The end. This is the end Stiles."

Stiles entire body became alert at Helen's words. Electricity ran from his toes through to the tips of his fingers, jolting him wide awake.

Finally.

Stiles didn't need to ask again, didn't need to confirm. Helen hadn't lied to him before.

So he just grabbed his pen again, pressing it against the next unmarked page until the ink left a stain.

And he listened as Helen told him the ending.


	5. Chapter 5

No.

_No._

Stiles was still trying to take in everything he'd heard. So much. Too much.

He was shaking, and suddenly he felt very cold. He wrapped his arms around his gaunt torso, felt himself shiver violent and uncontrollably. Wondered briefly if he'd ever be warm again, but his mind was swamped with Helen's word and no external thought could last for long.

Stiles tried to understand, but for the first time in a very long time he felt his veins course with true, unadulterated terror. Maybe there was a bit of confusion and anger there too, but it was eclipsed by a fear Stiles couldn't remember ever having felt before.

Because this was not his story.

This was not his ending.

This was not the way he wanted it to go.

It was wrong. So wrong that Stiles felt it like a physical wound, seeping inky blood onto the unwritten pages.

The story…it was wrong. It was…it's…just…

Stiles couldn't do it. He couldn't write it the way Helen told him. He had to write the real story, he had to write the truth, the way that things are and will be and can't possibly be and just…

Stiles started writing again. He wrote and wrote, until the quicks of his thumb were split and bleeding, and he kept writing. He filled up page after page with his scrawl, waiting for the end, hoping for the end.

He continued to write until he couldn't distinguish between the letters anymore, and then it wasn't him writing, but some unnatural force within him that had taken control of his words, and his fingers, and was making up the story before his eyes.

Then it was finished. The words were all gone, not in his head anymore but on the pages in front of him. Some of them were tainted with his blood, as well as the foul ending that he couldn't avoid, no matter how much he wrote.

Angrily he ripped the pages he'd just written out of the book, scrunching them up and tossing them aside.

He just needed to start again. The other ending was gone now. He'd written it, then destroyed it, thrown it away. _It_ was gone, so he could start again. Do it right.

He started writing, and didn't stop until the pages were filled again. And once again he tore up the ending and started again.

But it didn't make a difference. He could write and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite. The ending would never change.

He couldn't finish the story any other way. No matter how hard he tried.

He got up and paced around the room. Went back to the desk and tore up the ending once more.

Nothing changed. His room remained the same, he remained the same and the ending remained the same.

"Why can't I change the ending?" He desperately demanded, pleading with Helen to help him understand. To tell him _why_.

But Helen was gone, and the room was completely silent.

(...)

Stiles was quiet. He sat across from his father at the table. Stared into space. His father ate slowly, stopping far too often to cast a worried look across at his son. Stiles didn't eat. Just stared at something that couldn't be found, even in the distance. No matter how hard anyone tried to look for it.

When his father finished eating and took away Stiles laden plate, Stiles walked back upstairs. He was just going to lie down on his bed, stare at the ceiling until he fell asleep. A couple of hours after that he might wake up from his nightmares and head back downstairs again.

The door to his room opened and closed, transmitting a lifeless Stiles through its frame, and in a few steps he was lying on his bed.

He didn't react to his visitor. Derek was sitting on the chair by his desk, but Stiles didn't really think that that was very important anymore. Maybe it was, once. Not anymore.

His book was open in Derek's hands, but Stiles didn't see any importance in that either.

Let Derek read it. Whatever.

From what he could tell, it looked like Derek _had_ already been reading the story. He was frowning a bit, but he didn't look too angry, which probably meant that he hadn't gotten further than half way. Still, there was enough in the first half of the book that Stiles might once have worried about this situation. Once.

Stiles wondered if maybe Derek would just leave if he didn't say anything. It would be considerate of him. If Stiles just continued to lie there and think about nothing while the ceiling above his head got seconds closer to crashing down on him.

But he had a feeling that silence wasn't about to get rid of Derek.

So he sat up on the bed. Derek looked up from the words on the page he was reading. Or maybe he was just criticizing Stiles handwriting. Maybe he didn't care about the thing that Stiles had spent his lifetime writing. Why would he?

"People are worried about you." Derek said and Stiles considered his words with a careful indifference. He almost admired Derek's ability to inject absolutely nothing of his emotions into the words that came out of his mouth. If you just watched him you could seriously think that Derek was just commenting on the mild weather.

If the weather was mild. Stiles wouldn't know.

"I know." It was true. Stiles did know. He just lost the ability to care, somewhere along the way.

Derek being there was surprisingly difficult. Because Derek had a way of making Stiles _feel_ things. Many different things (not all of them good), but things nonetheless. And Stiles really didn't want to feel anything.

When Stiles was younger, he'd known a boy who got really bad migraines. Every time, before the head pain would start, the boy would go completely blind. Losing his vision was just an omen of the horror the next few hours would turn into.

Derek was like Stiles going blind. Like that little bit of pain you get before the real pain starts. Because if Derek could make him feel things, even just surprise or confusion, then Stiles wouldn't be able to stop the rest from coming.

And Stiles really didn't want to feel the rest. He didn't think that he could take it. He had to keep it all at bay, so that he wouldn't lose the little that he had left.

But it was Derek, and it was Stiles, and he'd never been able to help himself.

He's finished bhe"Why are you here Derek? Really, I mean."

Derek hesitated, as though that was a question that he'd been trying to answer himself.

Stiles could feel the wordless thing again. The thing he'd never been able to capture for his story, not even in the end.

When Derek spoke, it was almost a growl, which did funny things to Stiles. Things he ignored.

"You know why."

And sure, Derek didn't know how to give words to the wordless thing either, but he knew how to bring it up, to flaunt it in front of Stiles. The thing he didn't get to have. That wordless thing between them.

Derek's words were as good as a nod towards the book, and Stiles knew that he'd read everything in it that Scott saw, everything that Stiles put in without meaning to. And maybe this was Derek's way of telling him that he was right. This was some convoluted way of showing Stiles that he cared about him after all.

Of course Stiles knew.

Of course he did.

"Sure. I know. But do you?"

Because that was the real question. Derek had found a way to say everything without saying anything. So there was absolutely nothing there, in the end.

"Does it matter?"

Stiles laughed without a trace of humour.

Did it matter?

"No."

Not anymore.

Stiles thought that particular grimace of Derek's was supposed to convey confused desperation, but it wasn't really much of an expression at all. They were both standing now, the book lying forgotten on his desk.

"Stiles, I-"

"There's a thin line between fiction and reality, Derek. Thin, but still there." Stiles said, cutting Derek off.

"The real world is so…wrong, Derek. You can't have perfect, wonderful, fictional relationships. You can't have perfect, amazing, fictional _sex_. Everything is so much harder to put together, and nearly impossible to break apart. Nothing works."

He was making Derek uncomfortable, but he needed to convey what had happened. Everything that he had realised. He needed to show Derek that things would never be the way he wanted them to be.

"Stiles, I need to know that you're okay."

Stiles didn't move, didn't answer. He couldn't tell Derek that he's okay. He couldn't lie.

Derek waited for an answer until it was almost certain he wasn't going to get one. Then, abruptly, he was in Stiles' personal space, leaning in and hesitating for only a second.

The numbness in Stiles' fingers began to subside, because Derek was so close, and them the man was kissing him. Stiles _felt_ Derek's lips against his, feeling the warmth of his closeness. His breath stuttered in his lungs, and his head span. The kiss was gentle, slow, but suddenly Stiles' head was spinning at a speeds unimagined. He felt Derek's strong hands land on the sides of his arms, felt the warmth of contact there as well. Stiles kissed back, feeling a lightness that he hadn't felt for so long. His resolve was fading quickly, and he knew that he was seconds away from just losing himself in this sensation forever.

_NO. _

Stiles heard the yell as it reverberated through the room and his head.

Reality came crashing in. It was just an illusion. Even if it felt so real. It wasn't.

Stiles pushed Derek back, somehow managing to move the man. He could hear his blood rushing past his neurons, feel desire pumping through his body. To have that moment back, to have Derek's lips back. What was he doing comparing Derek to blindness? This was pure fire, and Stiles struggled to put it out.

No, his mind screamed. He could hear Helen yell simultaneously.

And he listened.

He roughly dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth, wiping away all evidence of the kiss.

It had never happened.

It _could_ never happen.

Derek was looking at him strangely, and Stiles didn't have the ability to read him.

The kiss was gone now. He'd erased it and it had never happened. He began to calm down, and his heart rate slowly approached normal. There was nothing left of that momentary insanity. That momentary hope.

"That's not how the story goes Derek. We're not how it goes. _We_ don't' get to be _us_. We're not how it ends."

Derek began to step forward, but Stiles flinched back. He stopped, standing in the middle of Stiles' room.

"I'm not talking about some story, Stiles. I'm not interested in how the book ends. I just…" His face hardened, as if he'd hit the limit on emotional displays. "Just tell me that you're okay."

Stiles didn't answer, just sat back down on his bed. He wasn't looking at Derek anymore. He'd gone back to staring at the something that was nothing. Derek got angry at his despondence, moved a bit closer, said something that Stiles didn't bother to interpret. Then he calmed down. And it was over.

He picked up his jacket from where it was lying across the back of his desk chair. Stiles still didn't look at him. He noticed, for the first time in days, that it was dark outside.

Derek hesitated only a little while longer. Then he went to walk away. Stopping at the door, he turned back. Stiles wished that he could tell him not to leave.

"It's your story, you can end it however you want."

Then he was gone, and the room was deathly quiet again. Like it had been since he found the old story.

"It's not my story anymore. It never was." Stiles said, plainly, to the empty room. Ignoring, denying how much he wanted, _God he wanted_, Derek to come back.

He sat, completely still, not daring to move. It was truly over.

He waited for the end to come, slowly becoming aware that something was terribly wrong.

(...)

Stiles was running again. Only this time, it was not a dream. It was dark, but not the completely darkness he remembered from his nightmares. This was a normal darkness, and outside-at-night darkness, but it didn't really make much of a difference. Stiles barely noticed the light of the crescent moon above his head, where it was visible through the canopy of the tress. He was too focused on running, on trying to catch Derek. Before it was too late.

Because Derek had the book.

He must have grabbed it when he went to grab his coat, when Stiles hadn't responded to him. He'd taken the book, and he was going to destroy it. Somehow, Stiles knew that. There was no other reason for Derek to have taken it.

Stiles had to stop him.

"Derek!" Stiles yelled into the night, knowing that no matter how far away Derek was, he would hear what Stiles was saying. "Don't do it Derek! It will…you're killing me. This will kill me. Don't-"

"Derek! Stop! You'll…you'll never have him Derek. If you do this, you will never have him. Stiles will never love you. If you destroy me, you destroy him, and any chance you ever had." Helen's words were foreign in Stiles mouth, but he spoke them anyway.

He could hear Helen, even now. The voice had grown so strong that it could leave the safety of Stiles' room, so strong that Stiles could hardly hear his own heavy breathing.

Helen was frantic, pleading with Stiles. His sobs tore at Stiles, ripping through him because they were too close to his own desperation. Helen needed him to find Derek. _He_ needed to find Derek.

But the wolf had a head start, and Stiles didn't know which direction he should be going in. He was running on desperate instinct now, and it had brought him into these woods. Stiles suddenly remembered that night in the woods, with Scott, and he finally knew who it was that he felt waiting for him out in those woods.

Helen.

_Get him. Please Stiles. Before he destroys me. Kill him Stiles, please. _

But Derek was too strong. Stiles knew what Derek could do, and he was only human. How was he supposed to stop him? Stiles couldn't kill someone as strong as that.

_You made him up, Stiles. Of course you can kill him. Just find him. Find him please and KILL HIM._

Stiles couldn't think, couldn't hear his own thoughts. It was all Helen, and the boy was screaming now, sensing just like Stiles did, that he was running in vain.

He had no idea where he is. He didn't know where he was going any more. He was going to be too late.

He _was_ too late. He was completely lost, somewhere amongst the trees, and there was too great a distance between them and Derek, but it didn't matter.

He still felt it when Derek tore into his pages, the words he had written. Felt them catch, flash into ashes in distant flames.

Derek was burning his book. Derek was burning him. He fell to his knees in agony, screaming silently, as the walls of his inky cage came crashing down.


	6. Chapter 6

He was in the darkness again. The real darkness this time. No prick of light, no moon. No stars.

But it was different this time. Helen was with him.

Helen was there. Stiles could finally see him.

A shimmering outline, growing stronger and stronger. It faded in and out before Stiles eyes.

And Stiles wasn't running anymore. This was it. This was as far as he could go.

Stiles was on his hands and knees, watching as the vision before him became stronger.

This was Helen's story now, and Stiles' nightmare.

He never wanted this. He'd never wanted any of this.

Stiles struggled to his feet, feeling weak and shaky. The person before him was almost a complete mirror image. Helen was Stiles, right down to the short hair and gnawed nails. But there was something wholly different about him, something sinister. A wrongness.

Or maybe not. Maybe it was Stiles that was wrong. Maybe what he was seeing was a lack of his flaws. A lack of himself.

Then the thing in front of him smiled, and Stiles knew. Stiles knew that this thing, with its evil and emptiness, it was the broken one.

Stiles heard a chuckle, dripping with malevolent disappointment, break through the oppressive silence.

Helen kept smiling at him, watching him struggle to remain upright. Stiles' head was spinning, his whole world tilting, lurching forward and back until he couldn't help it, he was back on his knees again.

"Hello Stiles." Stiles didn't answer, just focused on not throwing up the little that he'd managed to eat over the last week or so.

"I'd ask how you are, but I already know and I'm not really interested. I guess I better say thank you, but I really don't feel grateful. You're kind of a letdown, you know.

"So real, so _human…_so imperfect. I'm so much better than you. You're so weak, and pathetic."

"You're…" Stiles struggled to find his voice, growing impossibly weaker with every word Helen said.

"Poor Stiles. Nobody cares, you know. When you talk no one listens. No one turns their head when you walk into a room. What kind of a life did you think you were going to have?"

"You…"

"Really, I'm doing you a favour. I'll be so much better at being you, Stiles I promise."

"YOU ARE ME!"

(...)

Suddenly he was back in the cold. Looking up at the sky, partially obscured by the canopy of leaves.

It was still night, or it was night again, and Stiles could see the stars.

He was dying. He understood that now. He'd been dying slowly, ever since he'd found the book again.

This was finally the end.

Everything was so quiet, and so cold.

The quiet was nice. It felt safe. Or different, at least.

He didn't remember ever being this cold before.

He looked up at the sky, watched the stars and waited.

He wasn't completely sure, but he thought it was his dad who eventually found him, picked up his unresponsive form and carried him out of the woods. The sheriff didn't say anything, but that was okay. Sometimes they don't need words.

(...)

Hospitals are busy places. It's a generally accepted fact within society, but Stiles was experiencing it first hand, so he reckoned he had the right to bring it up. And continue to bring it up. But his hinting didn't seem to be having the desired effect, since he hadn't been released yet. But since there was nothing all that wrong with him, a little under-nourishment and some mild hypothermia, he was taking up a bed that could be used by someone who actually needed it.

He'd been brought in during the very early hours of the morning, and ever since he'd been wrapped up in sterile sheets like a babe in swaddling bands. Which was getting more ridiculous every hour. He was very fed and warmed up already. Care had been taken. Of him. Both sides of the caretaking arrangement had been upheld. But he was still not being released.

He'd slept well. Better than he had in a very long time. His dreams, if he'd had any, were lost to the deep exhaustion and utter unconsciousness he'd willingly lost himself to. Whatever had been plaguing his sleep was gone now.

Stiles still didn't know what had happened. He remembered everything, every second of that torturous slavery, to writing, but he didn't understand how a thing like that could happen. It was unlikely to say the least.

His father had brought him in, shivering and unconscious. The last thing he knew for certain was that he'd been looking up at the stars, after that everything was vague or non-existent.

Then he'd woken up, in the hospital bed. His father was sitting in the chair by his bed.

Stiles hadn't known what to say. Was there some kind of post-madness etiquette for those who have to watch you go slowly insane? Because there really should be. It was bound to happen a far bit.

In the end it didn't matter that he didn't know what to say. His father seemed to understand the point that was most important to Stiles, now at least. That it was over. Anyone else would have stuck Stiles somewhere away from the rest of society, to have his issues worked out.

Stiles just wanted to put his issues behind him. He'd been through so much that he didn't want to have to go through anymore, and he'd been worried that people would want him to go through it, again and again. But his dad seemed to understand at least that much.

And all of this transpired without words. Which was both strange and new for Stiles. No stumbling around for what he really wanted to say. No saying at all.

His father did tell him that Scott had been in to see him while he'd been out. Stiles was slightly reassured that he didn't do any irreparable damage. But his father had to leave, and Stiles needed to rest. Most of the day had been taken up by semi-intensive resting.

Stiles had been on his own most of the time, when he wasn't chatting with the nurses. That was strange and almost new for Stiles. Being alone when he was alone.

So waking up in the hospital, and everything that had happened since, it was a bit of a shock. Because everything was telling him that it was over.

And Stiles _was _almost convinced.

(...)

There was a definite downside to having the sheriff as a father. Prolonged hospital stays was part of that downside. Stiles had been told that not only was he being held overnight, but he would not be released until lunch time tomorrow. For no apparent reason, since he was sleeping well and eating like he was starving.

He'd already done all of the things that people do when they're in hospital. Watched the static-y television screen. Fiddled with the bed controls. Made sure nothing was happening on the ceiling that he might miss out on.

But there was only so much ceiling watching one could do in a whole, very long, day. And by time night pulled 'round again Stiles had reached his limit.

And there was something else. Something that Helen said to him that night that had stuck. He couldn't get it out of his head.

It was like one of those thing. The things that you forget, and every time you're reminded of it, it all comes back, like it's the first time you thought of it. Only Stiles didn't want to think about it. Ever again.

A couple of people had come through the hospital, ducking in to visit him.

_You made him up, Stiles._

Somewhere along the track, Stiles had lost track of where reality ended and fantasy started. He still didn't really know where that line was supposed to be. And what side things belong on. What side _people_ belong on.

Because everything got so mixed up. Stile didn't know when it happened. Where it happened. Things that he was so sure of, they were gone now. He didn't even know what the things were. He was re-learning his life.

And Stiles wasn't sure that Derek was in the real part of it.

Because, thinking about it, he was exactly the character that Stiles needed him to be. And he turned up just when Stiles needed a story. And everything that had happened since was distorted by everything that didn't.

But those thoughts didn't last long, and they didn't come too often.

The hospital at night was even worse. The walls were covered in posters about health issues and patients, and Stiles had already read most of them twice. They were an unattractive beige colour which screamed official business. Bright orange would be nicer, and that was really saying something.

There were a whole lot of strange noises, echoing beeps and groans. Stiles wondered why there weren't more horror movies set in hospitals. There are a fair few already, but there's so much potential in the long corridors and flickering lights. They really do flicker, and Stiles didn't know why, because that doesn't seem to be the most efficient lighting system for a place that really needs to run 24/7.

Derek didn't sit in one of the nearby chairs, like everyone else did. He materialised out of the shadows to stand by the bed, lending credence to the whole make believe thing, since people don't usually just materialise out of dark corners so silently.

If Stiles so much as even tried to think about doing that whole mysterious thing he would find something to trip over and he wouldn't be standing, but sprawling, by the end of the bed.

Suddenly he was thinking about it again, everything that he'd said and done last night. The threats that he made, the things that he had said to Derek to try and influence him. To manipulate him.

But he couldn't apologize. He would have no idea where to begin, and he didn't know where he stood with Derek. He knew where he might have stood, but then things happened. Things changed and he couldn't know anymore.

This was Derek, who appeared in the middle of the night in his hospital rooms. This was Derek who enjoyed having superpowers more than he let on (but it was still pretty obvious, even if he didn't like all the stuff that came with it).This was Derek as Stiles hoped he could never have imagined him, and he still didn't know what he should do.

"Stiles."

"Hey Derek."

Derek looked a little lost too. But Stiles could be projecting.

They could've just kept occupying the same silence awkwardly, but Derek had to keep up the air of mystery, so he couldn't have all that long before he was contractually obliged to disappear back into the shadows or jump out a window.

"Thanks for_"

"I'm sorry, Stiles." Derek interrupted, looking far too uncomfortable for _just_ an apology.

"For what? You have nothing to be sorry for Derek, I should be the one still apologizing."

If anything, Stiles' reassurance seemed to make Derek more uncomfortable.

"For coming. I'm, ah…sorry for coming. I knew that you would probably hate me after what I did. I didn't think that you would want to see me. But I just wanted to make sure that you were alright."

"For what you did?" Stiles asked, stunned. "You _saved_ me."

"I nearly destroyed you in the process. You begged me not to do it, warned me what it would do to you, and I still did it. You said, if I did it…"

"Derek, I owe you more than just my life. I owe you my sanity, and that's worth a fair bit more. I know what I said. I know that, were I still…I would be angry. I _was_ angry. But…you risked losing me, to save me. You risked everything, to bring me back. I could never hate you for that."

Stiles didn't know how to tell Derek that everything could be okay between them. Everything could be nice, great, awesome, amazing between them. He wasn't sure that Derek wanted it to be. Words between the two of them never seemed to sit right, they did most of their talking through actions. At least Derek did and Stiles just tried to keep up with whatever was happening. But Derek hadn't moved any closer since he appeared, and Stiles was taking that as a pretty clear (if not heart breaking) sign.

So. He'd lost Derek.

Yeah.

The chance he'd thrown away was the only one he was going to get, and he'd, well…he'd thrown it away.

Stiles looked away from Derek. He was _not_ bitter about this. He did not blame Derek at all. That would be unfair of him. But he was suddenly exhausted again.

It wasn't like he hadn't expect this. If this thing had ever been about to turn into something, ninety-nine to one it would be patented Stiles-brand unrequited, the one being Stiles screws it all up.

He could fix stuff with his friends and family later, tomorrow or next week. But he knew that some things didn't get to be fixed, and he really just wanted to sleep so that he could forget the thing that stays broken. Or pretend that he's okay with it.

"You don't need to worry about me now Derek. I'm alright. Really this time. The professionals all agree. I'll be out of here tomorrow. I can't cause too much trouble between now and then."

Derek just stood there, silent and clearly uncomfortable.

And Stiles just couldn't do this anymore. Because it sucked.

So he closed his eyes and pretended that he didn't have to give up the only thing that managed to save him from himself. And eventually he fell asleep, not knowing whether Derek was there when he sank into unconsciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

The sign was a little worn around the edges, probably from a long life of intensive use, and Stiles figured that it must have been taken from somewhere important, like above the low framed doorway to a police cell. Or something equally official.

The words were not quite funny enough to be from some mass produced novelty sign company. And besides, Stiles was pretty sure they didn't even have comical souvenir novelty signs for whatever it was that had happened to him.

Which meant that his father sought this out specifically, taking it from somewhere it was probably _very_ useful and _very_ needed, and it should _probably_ be returned before someone did themselves a serious injury, and Stiles knew exactly where he was going to put it.

Sure, he was a little embarrassed about being a lot embarrassed about his own…injuries.

But he needed to know, now more than ever before, that his people were still there for him. And if this was his father's way of saying that, Stiles was more than grateful.

It was a metal sheet with flaking red paint, blandly stating in bold white letters 'Mind Your Head', which was…yeah, almost halfway to a pun.

He thanked his dad, smiling to assure him that it was all okay. He'd been trying to convey that sentiment a lot lately, he was hoping that one of these times it might actually stick.

He still wasn't sure what happened, because most of the stuff he remembered, most of the stuff he _thought_ was real, sounded far too insane to bring up.

(Werewolves? Not exactly casual conversation fodder.)

People had been trying to tell him what happened, but nobody seemed to have the whole story, and Stiles wondered if _he _was the only one with the _real_ answers. Which was a terrifying thought, because he didn't really trust himself with the truth in that moment.

Doctors could tell him what was physically wrong with him. His father could tell him that he'd been acting strange lately. Scott hasn't said anything about it, and Stiles didn't ask, because a) he'd sound insane, and b) asking Scott about what may or may not have happened _supernaturally_ was veering way to close to other subjects that were still confusing the hell out of Stiles.

Stiles was pretty sure that he was in his right mind, had been since he woke up freezing in the middle of the woods.

He was in his right mind, but the question still remained.

The question: Derek.

Stiles still wasn't sure that Derek's real. One night-time visit to a partially lucid hospital patient was hardly evidence of existence. He wanted to believe that Derek was real, he _needed_ to believe that Derek was real, but he couldn't rid himself of the horrible doubt that he wasn't.

Everyone else seemed to exist, or Stiles was willing to concede that they were all probably actually around. But Stiles knew that he made at least one person, one thing _person enough_ to create true danger. It was plausible that he'd made two characters. One his sanity, the other his madness. And he destroyed the book himself, overcoming the threat of absolute insanity.

That's the way he would have written it.

It kinda made sense. Kinda in a way that Stiles could dismiss easy enough, if he could find his footing in the world that was slowly being rebuilt around him. But everything still felt a little topsy-turvy, and he didn't know what came next, or when it was coming, or where it was coming from, or why it was coming for him in the first place.

But Stiles could deal with those questions when the need arose. Right now, he was just gonna try and figure out question number one.

He was still standing in the hallway, holding the sign and spacing out a little. His father looked worried, but Stiles would have a lot of time to convince him that no worry was needed.

"Thanks Dad." Stiles said again, and his father just nodded awkwardly. They stood around, each one waiting for something to happen. It was strange and stagnant, and yes Stiles was getting tired of everyone treating him like he was going to explode in a micro-second, even if he deserved it.

He sighed, and took a step forward, further into the house and hopefully towards normalcy. It seemed to break the spell that had been cast on his father, and he was suddenly being ushered into his own kitchen, into a seat at the table. He took it, but he'd been lying still for too long, and he had a little bit of energy that he didn't know what to do with.

"It's…ah…good to be home."

It sounded odd, and Stiles remembered that he'd only spent a day away. It had felt like so much longer.

His father hovered a little, not saying anything. Stiles wished he wouldn't, but he didn't say anything either.

(...)

Only fifteen minutes later Stiles was out of his chair, making for the stairs. His capacity for sitting still had long since evaporated, and even though he was still suffering from the physical effects of watching a fictional character escape his head and try to take over his consciousness, Stiles took the stairs two at a time.

"No writing implements." His father called out weakly from wherever he happened to be. Stiles paused slightly but didn't know what to say in return, so he just kept going. He knew that it was supposed to be a joke, but it masked real concern, in both of them. Whatever triggered all this was long gone, but Stiles wasn't willing to take any chances just yet.

The door to his room was slightly ajar, so he pushed at it with his spare hand, left it where it swung open. If he closed the door, his father would be up in ten minutes to check on him. Leaving it open might buy him a little longer, but the reality was that his father was going to be up at some point to make sure he was okay. Which he would be.

The sign was in the other hand, and it was actually surprisingly heavy and more than a little bulky, so he was more than a little distracted. He went towards his bed, to the spare piece of wall over his headboard. The sign would fit perfectly, but Stiles was certain blue-tack was not strong enough to keep it in place. He turned back to his room, searching through the mess to try and find something that would do a better job. If he noticed a distinct lack of pens and pencils, well he wasn't about to make a big deal out of it.

He managed to MacGyver a makeshift frame out of some promising mess components, using the previously inadequate blue-tack in creative ways that made him feel more than a little proud. The sign rested securely against the wall, at a slight angle which Stiles knew will become really annoying before too long.

In his constructive preoccupation Stiles failed to notice someone come into the room, but as he took a few steps back he found himself being manhandled towards the back of the door, which had somehow, miraculously, thankfully, been closed.

He only had a second, barely enough time to identify his assailant, before Derek was kissing him, and a lot of Stiles thoughts were put on hold.

Derek kissed him like a madman, deep and desperate. Like he hadn't been sure that Stiles was going make it home without being involved in some new, serious catastrophe. Like he wasn't sure that Stiles was really going to make it home, and _finally_ everything that he had felt could be felt. Stiles could almost taste relief, but then all he could taste was Derek, and he was lost. Lost in the press of lips and tongue and Derek, solid against him.

Stiles reached up, grasped blindly at Derek's hair, completely willing to give up breathing if it meant that kissing Derek didn't need to end.

And maybe it didn't, because it wasn't Derek standing awkwardly, unwilling to come a step closer, instead it was Derek pulling back only far enough to take deep hurried breaths before he was putting his lips to better use and kissing Stiles like it was going out of fashion.

And it was perfection in a way that Stiles had never even imagined. It was everything that he'd convinced himself couldn't exist in their imperfect world. More real than almost anything Stiles knew, and this time there was nothing to stop him from giving in to the sensations, letting himself _feel_ as Derek moved impossibly closer.

When Derek finally moved back, Stiles couldn't feel his knees. Or his toes, or fingers, except for this weird sensation that they were still there, and probably still enjoying this as much as he was.

The awkwardness that used to hang around them constantly, leaving each just a little on edge, seemed to have vanished completely, and Derek was _smiling _at him as Stiles silently vowed to make this happen again. And again. And again.

"Well that solves one mystery." Stiles said as he remembered to exhale. "You're definitely a figment of my imagination."

He walked over to his bed, past Derek, fully aware that he really needed to sit down.

Derek's smile faltered a little, but recovered, somehow managing to keep its sincerity.

"Why's that?"

"Because that was far too perfect."

Derek laughed softly. He moved to sit next to Stiles on the bed, resting cautiously against the pillows. Stiles wanted to lie back with him, to be close to Derek again, but he just sat still at the foot of the bed. He didn't want to ruin it.

"I promise you, I am as real as everyone else."

Stiles could feel doubt seeping back in, feel its cold fingers sink through his skin. He wished that Derek's reassurance could be enough, enough to make him forget the horrible notion still plaguing him. But it wasn't.

He spoke hesitantly, far too aware of his words.

"I didn't know if you were real. I thought…but I wasn't sure."

"I was." Derek said softly, warmly. "I am."

"The whole time?" Stiles asked.

"The whole time."

Stiles was quiet, thinking. Derek watched him, head cocked to one side.

"And you're giving me a second chance."

Derek's eyebrows furrow, like they usually do when Derek wasn't quite understanding him.

"No. You never needed one."

"This is still my first chance?"

"I guess so?"

Stiles heard the question, but didn't reply. Slowly he joined Derek, leaning back into the man slightly. Derek adjusted his position, wrapped an arm around Stiles.

He was comfortable and warm, more so than he could remember being in a very, very long time. He didn't want to move. Ever again.

He was still thinking, though, about the questions left unanswered.

"What else was real? How much?"

"I don't know. I don't know everything that happened to you. You're real. I'm real. The werewolf stuff is real." Derek makes a face like he had to apologize for being a giant wolf creature every now and again. Like that was a thing that was his fault and Stiles would blame him for it.

But there were more pressing things, and Stiles remembered his nightmares all too clearly.

"Did I hurt anyone?"

Derek looked down at Stiles carefully, compassionately. And it was saying something about how much Stiles knew this man, that he was able to read compassion in his expression.

"Only yourself."

But Stiles was still worried. Because all he'd been given was words, and he knew about words. Knew that they were not always the truth, even if you think they are, or you really want them to be. There's still no proof. And he didn't know how there could be, but it was worrying him right out of just enjoying the moment and being comfortable with this man who, for some reason, was content with Stiles in his arms.

"How do I know? That this is real. That you're…that you're really here."

Derek was quiet for a moment, and Stiles listened to him breathe, wondering if he imagined those lungs into existence, along with the rest of Derek (because if he did, he did a fairly good job of it all).

"You'll have to trust me."

"I don't trust myself."

"Then you'll have to-" Derek was interrupted by the door opening.

His dad was standing in the doorway, hand still on the doorknob and staring at Stiles. And Derek. Stiles would say that the look on his father's face was priceless, if he wasn't too busy groaning internally at that same look. They were all completely still for a moment, then the Sheriff coughed awkwardly, doing nothing to break the tension in the room.

"Stiles. I just came to…check that you're okay. I guess…I'll just…"

Stiles was embarrassed about being caught snuggling in bed with another dude, but he was pretty sure, from his father's flustered (we'll-have-a-long-serious-talk-about-this-and-probably-a-number-of-other-embarrassing-things-later) face, that maybe this was real after all. As unlikely as it seemed, it was real.

His father turned abruptly and headed back downstairs, and while Stiles wasn't exactly looking forwards to the _later_ talk, he was almost shaking with the awesome realisation that Derek was real, and he was really there, lying with Stiles like he wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

Stiles couldn't stop, wouldn't even if he could, the goofy grin that infected his whole face, and he beamed at Derek, who was already smiling. Stiles reckoned he'd been smiling that way the whole time, despite the awkward and maybe even threatening looks his father had been sending their way.

"I think that went well." Derek said, and Stiles silently agreed. He couldn't imagine it having gone better.

"I think he'd rather it was you than a figment of my screwed up imagination."

"So you're convinced that I'm not a figment of your imagination?"

"Somewhat."

They were quiet. Stiles was thinking. Because he knew Derek enough to know that something suspicious was happening, even if he didn't know what. Yet. Then it hit him, and he frowned.

"That's why you didn't tell me he was there. You wanted him to come in a find you here."

Derek didn't seem fazed by Stiles figuring out his master plan.

"It served a purpose."

"Uh-huh. You are definitely sticking around for the 'He'd too old and serial-killery for you' talk."

Derek just smiled and kissed Stiles gently, as if he'd already counted on being around, regardless. Stiles settled back into the _real_, physical warmth of Derek behind him.

"Do you reckon you'd let him shoot you? Because that might actually happen. It would make his year. I mean, it would probably make my year too. As long as it's not too painful for you I guess. But you're Derek 'supercrazywerewolfskills' Hale, so…"

Derek just rolled his eyes, still smiling.


End file.
